CGPC LLC
by ordlas
Summary: AU. Christian was forced out on his own after dropping out of Harvard. He's running a successful business and doing well for himself by using all his talents and assets. Why, then, does he feel like something's missing?
1. Connections

Friday, one p.m., room 1020 at the O'Hare Hilton. Fuck, I hope this isn't what I think it is. Appointments at airport hotels usually mean one thing and it's the one thing I almost never do. Maybe this one is different and she really does want an escort to an afternoon wedding.

I knock on the door and am greeted with a muffled, "Just a minute!" After several seconds of waiting, I start to think that maybe she's making herself presentable. But then the door opens and shit! she's wearing nothing but a thong. From my brief glimpse, she doesn't look bad for a middle-aged woman but that's not what I'm here for.

Keeping my eyes focused on her face, I state in a firm voice, "Ma'am, I'll wait for you downstairs in the bar while you get dressed." I turn and walk back towards the elevators. I hear her calling after me, "Wait! Don't you want to come in and relax for a while?"

"I'll be in the bar, ma'am," is my only reply, loud enough for her to hear. As I continue walking I listen for the click of the door lock and breathe a small sigh of relief when I hear it. I turn around to make sure she hasn't followed me in her state of undress and let go of another sigh when I see no one.

Downstairs in the bar, I sip my beer while I wait out the half hour I normally give the client after a situation like this. Half the time she'll show up properly dressed and we'll go to whatever function I was hired for, no further advances offered. The other times, I'll leave after the half hour is up (forty-five minutes if I'm feeling generous and have no other plans), then go back to the office where I'll make a note on the client's record to never accept an appointment from her again.

I always allow the half hour, though. I may have a comfortably elegant lifestyle but that doesn't mean I'll just walk away from ten thousand dollars; actually nine thousand, since I always insist on a nonrefundable one grand deposit.

While I wait I usually make bets with myself on whether or not she'll show up. I'll also speculate on what her story is. They all have one and they're almost always eager to share it, whether it's truth or fiction. It must be hard wired into that extra leg on the X chromosome. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier just to give them what they really want and not have to endure all the endless blather.

The stories are all variations on a theme, the theme being loneliness. The neglected longstanding wife, the bored trophy wife, the powerful never-married executive, they all sing the same song and it's always in a minor key. So many times after an appointment, I've felt like the world's highest paid shrink.

On the other hand, I really don't have cause for complaint. The last couple years I've had a seven-figure income doing something that involves very little effort, although I should probably factor in the time and energy I spend in the gym.

I've mastered the art of nursing a beer so that by the time I've finished, the half hour is up; even though I have no other plans, I don't feel like giving her the extra fifteen minutes. She's a no show. I leave my tip and head to the garage for my car.

Driving home, I encounter one of the other reasons I dislike appointments outside of downtown: traffic. The Kennedy's bumper to bumper, making it an hour and a half before I walk into my Gold Coast penthouse.

I have some nervous energy and frustration to get rid of so I debate whether I want to work out here in my personal gym or go to the East Bank Club. Using my workout room here is quick and private. Going to EBC, I can take advantage of the spa facilities and maybe do a little networking, aka catching up on the latest gossip in the hopes that I'll get some more leads.

EBC wins out; I grab my gym bag and go downstairs to get a cab since I don't feel like taking the car out of the garage again. When I arrive at the club I check with the front desk to see if Julio's available for a boxing workout. He is and for a second I muse that this offsets the bad luck I had with my appointment today. Whatever it is, I go to the locker rooms to change and then head for the gym.

After the forty-five minute session my frustration level is way down so I'm off to the pool for some laps. An hour of that, a half hour massage, and I'm ready for dinner. While staying poolside and eating at the Sun Deck Café offers its advantages, I opt for the slightly more upscale feel of Maxwell's.

"Christian."

I'm enjoying my oyster appetizer when a soft voice interrupts my random thoughts. I know who it is without looking and when I turn, there she is, the beautiful Luba, all sixty-eight inches of her; for some strange reason this reminds me of an old joke - What's a sixty-eight? You do me and I owe you one.

My long-instilled manners automatically take over and I rise to do the cheek kiss thing. She's all soft blonde curls, Prada perfume, and expensive silk. "Lupcha," I say, using the endearment form of her name, "Would you care to join me?"

"Just for one drink. I'm having dinner later with the alderman and I have to be on my game." She sits down across from me and the waiter scurries over to take her order.

"Scotch rocks," she tells him and he scurries away to do her bidding. Typical Luba, making "one drink" a Scotch; she has the eastern European tolerance for hard liquor.

"So tell me, what makes you have dinner alone at the senior hour? You should be wining and dining some cute young thing later on."

"Horny cougar," I state simply and she makes a face.

"Ugh! So sorry. Was it a referral?"

I nod, "Yes, ma'am. Only way I work now."

The waiter brings her drink, "Here you go, miss. Would you like anything else?"

"No, thank you," she dismisses him politely and he turns toward me. "How about for you, sir?"

"Yes, I'll have the salmon with a side of zucchini."

"Very well, sir. Thank you." And he's off again.

"So who referred her? Was it one of mine?" When Luba ran the business she was very finicky about her referral sources. I'm still trying to hone my instincts to her level, although I do remember a couple of appointments back then that almost sent me running back to Seattle.

"No, this was a referral from another client. A client whom I will have words with next week."

"Nothing wrong with a little fun if you're discreet. Just have to be careful which inkwell you dip your pen into."

"This pen will be dipped into zero client inkwells. I don't need that rep and I don't want it." This was something Luba and I disagreed on frequently when I worked for her. It was a significant factor in my move to take over the business.

"From what I've heard, your pen isn't being dipped into any inkwells, client or otherwise. What's wrong, Christian? Chicago's full of smart, beautiful, young women in any flavor your little heart desires. With your face and physique, you could have your pick of any one of them. Or two. Or three."

"Luba, please." We've had this discussion so many times you'd think she'd have learned to back off by now. "I appreciate your concern but my social and sexual life are my own business. Please don't worry about me."

"I know, sweetie, but I hate to see someone like you so lonely. You're young, smart, handsome, well-mannered, and you know how to live the good life. It's such a waste! I've even wondered if you're gay but as far as I know, you're not walking on that side of the street either."

I chuckle. "And how would you know that, Luba? Don't tell me you bat from both sides of the plate!"

"Oy, Christian, one half of the human race is quite enough for me. Not that I haven't experimented but it's not my scene. No, I have friends in all sorts of places. I don't judge people by their bed partners which is why it wouldn't bother me if you were gay, as long as you had _someone_."

I have to get her off this topic; it's really starting to annoy me. "So what's the dinner with the alderman about? Opening a strip club in the ward?"

"Oh, please, you know I'd never do something so garish! No, I'm just keeping the wheels greased. In this town you never know when you'll need a favor and it helps to make your presence known every so often. I'll put in a good word for you."

"Thanks. I need all the good words I can get." She's finished her drink by now and stands up to leave. I follow suit and we do the cheek kiss thing again. She takes my hand and looks me square in the eye. "Just remember, Christian, it's not all about the work and the money. Find time to connect with someone."

"I'll think about it. Enjoy your dinner."

"Thanks. You, too," she smiles and leaves. I sit down just as the waiter brings my salmon.

Luba's the big sister I never had. She saved me from making some very bad mistakes and taught me all that she knew about the business I'm in. She brought me to Chicago and introduced me to most of her connections. I say most because I don't really know how many she has. Like me, Luba keeps parts of her life hidden; I only know about them from offhand remarks she's made over the years that I've known her.

Her biggest problem is that she gets bored easily. It's one of the reasons I was able to buy her out so cheaply. She was marrying husband number three who didn't approve of her line of work. She said she was getting tired of it anyway but I wonder if she really believed that. Be that as it may, I took over and continued developing what she'd built.

Husband number three got itchy feet and they divorced, leaving her with a very comfortable settlement. I have no doubt she's working on husband number four somewhere between maintaining her connections and dabbling in whatever project strikes her fancy.

Dinner's done and I decide to take in some live music at The Redhead Piano Bar. The weather's nice and it's not that far, so I opt for walking there.

I only stay for a couple of sets, though, since it seems like every Trixie from Lincoln Park is hanging out there. Worse yet, they keep hitting on me. If I thought it would mean some business leads, even if it's from one of their mothers, I'd play along but these chicks are broke and clueless.

Walking back to the penthouse, I pass other bars and clubs but they hold no appeal for me right now. Friday night on State Street is full of drunks and couples and drunken couples. I think back on Luba's words about connecting with someone. Why would I want to connect with anyone when they're all idiots?

Back at the penthouse I sit down at the piano and make my own music. I've been working on jazz improvisation and almost feel like I'm making progress. But after an hour of playing, it's not doing it for me. I close up the piano, get myself a glass of wine, and try to relax on the balcony.

Instead of relaxation, though, an ennui bordering on melancholy sets in. I replay the day's events – the horny cougar, Luba's words, the Trixies hitting on me at the bar. Everyone wants me to connect with someone. What they don't realize is that my ability to connect with anyone was broken a long time ago. And I will probably never be able to fix it.


	2. Houseguest

As has happened for so many days since I moved into my penthouse, I'm awakened on Saturday morning by the sun rising over Lake Michigan. I contemplate it as I stroke my morning wood to a perfunctory orgasm, after which I go to the bathroom to wipe myself off and take a leak.

It looks like good weather for a run so I do some stretches in my bedroom before putting on my sweats and heading for the lakefront trail. It's early enough that only the dedicated are out and that's fine by me. As a bicyclist passes me with a courteous "on your left!" I think about maybe getting back on my Bianchi this summer and training for a century. I've never done one and it seems like a good fitness challenge.

As I run north I plan my day. With rare exceptions, most weekend days are like today where I only have one appointment. This one is with Agnes, a seventy-year-old widow who hires me to attend cultural events with her every other month or so; this time we'll see a Matisse exhibit at the Art Institute. Afterwards we'll probably go to the museum campus and stroll through one of the museums there; we alternate between the planetarium, the aquarium, and the Field Museum. First, though, we'll have lunch at Russian Tea Time, her favorite dining place for our outings.

My turnaround point on the trail is the totem pole at Addison; until now I've been doing a brisk jog but when I head back south I break into an all-out run. There are several reasons for this; one is to push myself as hard as I can. Another is that the running clubs have started making their appearance and while I applaud their efforts, packs of people really annoy me. Finally, the practical reason is that I just want to get home as soon as I can.

Back at the penthouse I fix myself breakfast and eat it on my balcony, enjoying the beautiful morning air. As I eat I think about my upcoming conversation with Maude, the woman who referred yesterday's horny cougar to me. Situations like this are touchy since Maude is an excellent source for out of town clients. Most of them aren't as crass as this one was but I still have to make it clear that sex is not part of the deal. Maude already knows this so I'll just subtly reiterate it and gently suggest that she prep her referrals more thoroughly.

Time to start my work day. I clean up the breakfast mess, then shower and dress. The great part about afternoon appointments is that there's no need to dress up; with the current weather, black slacks and a long-sleeve blue cotton dress shirt are all I need.

My talk with Maude is mercifully brief. She's mortified about what happened and is overly apologetic, assuring me that it won't happen again. While I'm talking with her I get a chime telling me I have another incoming call, which I ignore. Right after I hang up I get a text alert.

**AA125 ORD 815pm**

It's from my brother Elliot and it's typically terse. Checking my missed call list I see that it was him calling while I was on the phone. I tap the icon and wait for him to answer.

"Hey, little bro! How they hanging?"

"So you're dropping in on me at the last minute? Just like that? No notice?" I'm actually glad he'll be here but I have to give him some shit first.

"Wowowo, bro! You don't want me staying with you, no prob, I'll get a hotel. Sure don't want to interrupt any orgies you got going on there."

Ha! I got him! "This is the Midwest, dude, we don't do orgies here. We only fuck cows and pigs and the occasional sheep."

"Funny, I never figured you for a livestock man. Always thought house pets were your thing, seeing as we kept running out of peanut butter all the time you lived here. Seriously, Christian, how you doing? And it really is no problem for me to stay in a hotel."

"Don't be silly, man, I was just surprised to hear from you. I haven't seen you for years and now you show up practically on my doorstep. What gives?"

"I'm bidding on a couple projects, one in Chicago and two in New York. I need to be there through Tuesday then I'll head on east. Thought I'd come out early and hang with you for a day."

This could be interesting; I have a Sunday afternoon appointment. "Well, I've got plans for tomorrow afternoon but I'm sure you can find something to keep yourself amused for a few hours."

"Heheh, just show me where you keep the livestock and I'll take it from there."

"Sure thing. You can rawdog the cows but you'll need condoms for the pigs. Watch yourself with Betsy, though, she likes it on the rough side."

"Will do, bro. So you'll pick me up tonight?"

I give him an overly loud sigh. "I guess. First my cows, then my car. Anything else?"

"Your liquor cabinet. The twenty-five year old scotch, not the cheap shit."

"Got it. Everclear and white zinfandel coming right up. Call me when your plane lands."

"Laters, baby." God, I hate when he says that.

So now I've got a houseguest for the next few days. My brother and sister and I email or call each other all the time and we Skype every couple months or so but neither of them has visited me in Chicago since I moved here five years ago. We met up in Paris when Mia spent the summer there three years ago and we've had short get-togethers in other cities but never here. This should be interesting.

I've never gone into detail with them about what exactly I do for a living and they've never pressed me on it. When dad kicked me out of the house six years ago he gave me an advance on my trust account; I think they assume I've been living off of that plus my Vegas winnings. I haven't disabused them of the idea. Now that Elliot will actually be staying with me I'm sure I'll fill him in on my career choice, especially when he sees my cars and penthouse.

I spend some time on administrative details like banking before I leave. I also do a quick review of Agnes's profile so that her personal details are fresh in my mind. She's been widowed for eight years and her late husband was a real estate mogul; she has one son who took over his dad's business when he died. He's very protective of his mom and gave me the third degree when she first hired me. I can tell he's still not thrilled with our arrangement but Agnes has all her faculties and total control of her money so there's nothing he can do about it. He's married to a shrew (Agnes's words) and has three young brats (again, Agnes's words). She dotes on them like any grandmother would but can only take them for so long.

She's quite spry for her age so I take the Spyder to Lincoln Park to pick her up. When I pull into her building's driveway I see her in an animated conversation with the doorman. As soon as she sees me she walks to the curb, still talking with him as he opens the door for her. He and I greet each other as he closes the door.

Heading south on Lake Shore Drive she catches me up on what's going on in her life. Her daughter-in-law's still a shrew and her grandkids are still brats but they're all going to Italy for a month this summer so she's trying to figure out how that'll work. She's quite active in charitable and civic organizations so I learn about what's happening with those groups. I keep my ear out for news of any divorces or deaths. My client list is comfortably full right now but someone could die or retire to a warmer climate so I'm always thinking about the next possible referral.

We use the valet at the Palmer House for parking and walk the short distance to the restaurant. Our conversation there turns to current events and local politics. Like Luba, Agnes is well-connected, mainly because of her late husband's business. She doesn't gossip much but I mentally store whatever tidbits she divulges for future use.

I'm somewhat surprised when she asks me if I'm looking for more clients. Turns out she has a friend from Georgia coming in for a couple weeks next month who might need an escort. I tell her that as long as her friend only wants an escort, nothing else, I'd be happy to offer her my services. She tells me her friend's name is Carla Adams and she'll be arriving mid-June. Agnes will give her my business number and I make a note of Carla's name in my iPhone so I'll recognize her when she calls.

After lunch we walk across Michigan Avenue to the Art Institute. Although Matisse is not one of my favorite artists I enjoy the exhibit. Once we've gone through it all twice we wander to some of the other collections, the first being their extensive display of Impressionist works. I never get tired of seeing the use of color and light in Monet's _Stacks of Wheat_ or Renoir's _Woman at the Piano_. Their Modern collection isn't too shabby either and we spent another hour or so there.

I'm wondering if she's getting tired by now but no, she still wants to go to the Shedd Aquarium. I hail a cab and it drops us off right at the entrance. Being Saturday afternoon, the place is crawling with families but I have memberships at almost all the cultural institutions in Chicago so we go right in. Whatever museum we attend, we always stop at the plaques honoring the donations made by her husband. He was quite generous with his wealth and his name is on walls all over the city.

We make a relatively quick tour of the Oceanarium and the Caribbean Reef exhibits. On our way out we stop in the gift shop where she picks up a little something for each of her grandkids.

In the cab ride back to the Palmer House to pick up the car, I ask her if she wants to have dinner but she says no, she wants to get home and take a nap, then spend the evening with pizza and television. I drop her off at her building. Different doorman but he's right there, opening the door for her as soon as we pull up to the entrance. She thanks me for a lovely afternoon and says she'll let me know when there's another exhibit she'd like to see.

Back at my place I check the American Airlines site for the status of Elliot's flight and see that it's on time. I check my bank account and sure enough, Agnes has made the deposit. I transfer money around, leaving just enough in the checking account to cover the upcoming week's expenses. Just before I hit the submit button, though, I decide to leave a little bit more. I don't know the status of Elliot's finances and he may be expecting me to pick up all the tabs.

I fix myself a fairly robust dinner since my brother will probably eat on the plane. Knowing him, he'll want to go drinking and trolling for women as soon as he drops off his stuff here.

When I've finished my meal I check the flight status again and find that the flight's early. Chances are they'll make the plane sit in the penalty box but I decide to get going anyway, given that traffic may be bad on the Kennedy.

Halfway to the airport I get a call from him and he tells me he's landed. I tell him to meet me on the lower level and to call me again when he's outside to let me know what door number he's standing at. As I make the turnoff for O'Hare he calls again and tells me where he is. Five minutes later I spot him outside Terminal 3, waiting with just a carry-on; at least he's travelling light for this trip.

I pull up next to him and get out. We do the man-hug thing and I open the back gate to stow his bag.

"Nice wheels, bro," he says as he gets in, "Very practical. Not at all what I thought you'd be driving."

"Thanks. I have another car I use when I'm feeling more adventurous," I reply as I pull away from the curb, "but I had no idea how much shit you'd be bringing so I thought the SUV would be the better bet."

"Two cars, huh? You must be doing better than we thought."

"I do okay," I reply noncommittally. Wait until he sees the penthouse. "So what do you want to do after we get you settled?"

"Check out the local nightlife, of course. I hope I can rely on you to show me the good spots."

"If you're talking booze or music, I can do that. If you're talking chicks, you're on your own."

"Damn, Christian, you still doing the monastic routine? For crissake, bro, live a little!"

"I'm living just fine, Lelliot," I answer, using my childhood nickname for him, "So how are mom and dad and Mia?" I'm hoping to steer the conversation away from me for now and it works. He spends the rest of the car ride updating me on everyone.

As we pull up to the entrance to my building's garage he looks around and then turns toward me. "Isn't this the high-rent district?"

"I don't rent, El, I own," I tell him brusquely.

"Oh," he remarks, sounding somewhat chastened, "I see."

I park the car and he gets his bag from the back. He's silent on the elevator ride up to my place. We get off at my floor and walk across the vestibule to the main door. I open it and lead him inside. I continue on ahead, turning on lights as I go and when I get to the great room I turn around. He's still standing on the other side of the room, scanning the place from one end to the other with a dumbfounded look on his face. I stare impassively at him, waiting for some kind of comment. Finally, he looks straight at me.

"Fuck the nightlife, little brother. You've got some explaining to do."


	3. Remembrance of Things Past

"Fine," I tell him, "Let's get you settled and have some drinks on the balcony." I walk over to where he's standing and take his carryon bag from him. I have to sort of pry it from his hands since he's still gaping open-mouthed all around him.

"Come on, dude," I say, giving his shoulder a little shake, "Let me show you to your room." He turns his head and gives me a bewildered look. "Yeah, sure," he mumbles. I lead him to one of the bedrooms facing southeast; it'll give him the finest view of Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline.

"Take your time," I tell him, "and meet me outside when you're ready. You'll find everything you need to refresh yourself in the bathroom there." I point to the open double-doors.

"Sure thing," he says quietly, "I'll meet you out there in a few." I leave him to his own devices and go back to the great room to get our drinks ready. I set up a bistro table with napkins, nuts, and olives.

I've already settled into my chaise and had a few sips of scotch by the time he wanders out here. He pours himself a couple fingers and sits back on the chaise on the other side of the table. It's a balmy night; there's a slight breeze and I have the patio heater ready for when it really cools down later on.

I'm not going to be the one to start this conversation so I enjoy my drink and the night air. I start to think he's fallen asleep when I look at him and see him staring at me. I raise my glass at him and say, "Cheers." He returns the salute, takes a sip, and says, "So. Tell me how you came into all this wealth."

"I didn't 'come into' it," I inform him, a little miffed, "I earned it."

"Okay, bro, don't get all snippy," he quickly replies, "I'm just a little overwhelmed here. I mean, I have a nice pad back in Seattle but it's nothing like this. What do you do that enables you to have such an opulent lifestyle?"

I get up and go back to the great room. In one of the drawers of the liquor cabinet I take out a business card case and extract a card. I hand it to him as I drop back down in my chaise. He reads the simple message there.

"_Christian Grey, Personal Consultant_." He grunts. "So what do you consult on?"

"Life," I reply simply.

"Life?" he questions. "That's rather vague. Would you care to elaborate? Do you, like, tell people what to do with their lives? That sort of thing?"

"Okay," I answer, "I don't exactly consult with people on their lives but I do make their lives more enjoyable." I'm finding this somewhat difficult to divulge to him. What I do is not illegal and Ell's not a judgmental person but for some reason I just can't bring myself to spit it out to him.

"More enjoyable, huh? So, what, are you a masseuse or something? Come on, bro, spill! Don't keep me guessing all night!" He's getting irritated now.

"I run an escort service, Elliot," I state.

"Escort service," he repeats. "So you're a gigolo?"

I grimace. Fuck, I knew he'd say that. It's the first thing that comes out of someone's mouth when I mention what I do. "Noooo, I'm _not_ a gigolo. Gigolos have sex with women for money. Believe it or not, I truly do nothing more than accompany women to whatever function or event they desire. I've walked away from appointments when the client's come on to me." I sip more scotch and let him digest that bit of information.

He's silent for quite a while. Finally, he asks, "What kind of women?"

"All kinds. I've had clients as old as ninety-two and as young as twenty-three. They come from all walks of life but they all have one thing in common."

"What's that?"

"The ability to pay my fee."

"And what, may I ask, is your fee?"

"Ten thousand dollars per appointment." I'm not looking at him but I can almost hear his jaw drop.

"Ten. Thousand. Dollars." he whispers. There's awe in his voice and I can't help but inwardly smirk. Outwardly I maintain my impassive look and wait for him to continue.

"How many appointments do you book?"

"Usually about three per weekend." I know he's doing the calculations so I save him the effort, "It'd be a mil and a half a year if I worked every weekend, which I don't."

"You don't?"

"No. I usually take off at least a month, sometimes a month and a half, throughout the year."

"Of course you do." He's sounding a little edgy now. "How long do your 'appointments' last?" He makes air quotes.

"Anywhere from four to eight hours."

"Four to eight hours." His disbelief is palpable. "Now, what the fuck makes you worth ten thousand dollars for four to eight hours?"

"Well, for starters, I'm not _you_," I sneer. He throws a peanut at me; I throw it back at him. "Dude, don't take it out on me. I can't help it if women are willing to pay good money to be seen with me. And it's not all a walk in the park. I have to work out and keep myself in shape. I spend a fortune on clothes. And some of the events I go to make me want to jump in Lake Michigan with a pair of cement shoes."

"Still," he continues, "A mil and a half a year won't pay for a place like this. Why don't you give me the full story? What did you do when dad kicked you out? Actually, what happened before that, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Actually," I retort, "I do mind." I'm still not ready to talk about that with anyone. It was bad enough going through it with the police.

"Okay, fine, where did you go first after you left?"

"You know this already – I went to Las Vegas."

"Straight there, no stops? I know we talked to you when you were there but I wondered if maybe you'd gone elsewhere first."

"Nope, headed straight down I-5 then made a left. I did stop at some motels along the way. I considered spending time in Frisco or LA but in the end decided on Vegas. No particular reason, just wanted something different. I took out a six-month lease on a small one-bedroom near The Strip. I had no idea what I was going to do. There were whole days I spent in the apartment watching mindless TV and drinking beer. Others I spent roaming up and down The Strip, doing some small-time gambling, mostly blackjack and video poker, getting free drinks, though of course, they're not really free, you know."

"Don't I know it!" he interjects, "Remember that spring break when I took you there with the fake i.d. I got you?" He chuckles at the memory and I just shake my head.

"Yeah, well, this wasn't quite as much fun. I had limited funds and not much in the way of marketable skills. If you're not careful, that town will chew you up and spit you out.

"Anyway, they were starting to rev up for the World Series of Poker. There were satellites going on all over town and I thought back to how I'd done okay at the game back at Harvard.

"I played several low-limit regular games to refresh my skills and did pretty well, mostly against tourists. I moved up to higher limits and got my ass kicked a couple times but decided to stick with it. I bought a laptop and played some online games.

"After a week or so, I felt ready enough to try a satellite. First one, I got my ass kicked again but I entered another one and won. So I now had the entrance fee to one of the smaller World Series events.

"Long story short, I played some more satellites, played three of the minor events, and played in the final event. I didn't win that but I made it to the final table. My total winnings for everything were over two millions dollars."

He gives a long, low whistle. "Dude! I had no idea! I'd have come down there and hit you up for money if I'd known!"

"Why do you think I didn't tell any of you? You guys thought I was struggling_"

"We did."

"_and that was just fine with me. I was still pissed off at everyone, even you and Mia, and I just wanted to leave it at phone calls and emails with the two of you."

"Mom kept pumping us for information about you. She really missed you. She still does."

"Yeah, well, she chose dad over me so she can go right on missing me."

"So what did you do with all that money? Invest it?"

"A lot of it, yes. I continued to live frugally and started studying the stock market. I knew the two million wouldn't last forever so I needed ways to make it grow. I started looking at real estate, too. The Vegas market was booming and I took advantage of it. And I got out at the right time, just before the meltdown. Of course, by that time I was here in Chicago."

"So why did you leave Vegas?"

"I'm getting to that. First I gotta tap a kidney. Can I get you anything else?" I get up and put my glass on the table.

"No, I'm cool. Hurry back, I'm dying to hear the rest of the story."

As I come back I call out to him, "Hey, you hungry at all? What do you think about ordering a pizza?"

"You know me, bro, I can always eat. Pizza sounds good."

"Cool. Deep dish or thin crust?"

"I dunno, what do you recommend? I don't think I've had deep dish."

"Deep dish it is, then. Still like the usual?" He nods and I take out my smartphone to use the GrubHub app. I order a large deep dish with sausage and mushrooms from Gino's East. Delivery time's almost two hours but that's okay, we've got all night. It's a lot of pizza but Elliot eats like a horse so I know we'll kill it in one sitting.

"Okay, where were we?"

"You were investing your poker winnings in stocks and real estate. Did you ever play another World Series?"

"I thought about it but decided not to. It's stressful and that doesn't bother me but if I'm going to be that stressed I'd rather get a bigger return on my money for the amount of time I spend. I found I could do better with other investments. I still played some high-limit regular games and an occasional tournament but I doubt I'll do another World Series again."

"So it sounds like things were going well for you. Why'd you leave?"

This will be tricky; I'm not sure how to tell this part of the story.

"Yeah, things were going well but that's when fate can turn around and bite you in the ass." I take a slow sip from my drink and swallow hard.

"I didn't socialize much. I had no connections there, other than some regulars from the poker tables but even that was limited to the occasional beer and small talk. I'd go to some of the lounges on The Strip or downtown just to be surrounded by people. I'm not gonna be coy – I knew I could have my pick of any of the young chicks that roam those places but I wasn't interested. It's like I had this bubble around me and that was fine, I was comfortable with it. I'd watch sports or play video poker and then go home.

"But one night, a woman broke my bubble."


	4. Las Vegas Gigolo

"She frequented the same spot I did. You know how when you go to a place often, there are people you recognize as being there but they're really on the periphery of your vision, you don't pay them that much attention? Well, she was like that.

"I have no idea when she started focusing on me. Looking back, I think she was probably stalking me all along but at the time, I just thought of her as someone who happened to like drinking at Mandalay Bay. At first she always sat at the other side of the bar but day by day she started moving closer and closer. She was a cougar in more ways than one and I was her prey."

"Hey, bro, I need some visuals! What did she look like? Was she hot?" he interrupts.

"Keep your shorts on, dude, I'm getting to that," I tell him, making my annoyance with him as obvious as I can. Right then my phone rings; it's the concierge letting me know our pizza's here. I tell him to send the guy up.

"Prepare your taste buds, my dear brother, for a gustatory feast," I say as I head for the door. "That good, huh?" he responds.

"I'll let you decide. The kitchen's that way," I say, pointing towards it, "Plates are in the cupboard and placemats are in the drawer next to the sink. You know the drill."

"Got it." I check that he's found it before opening the door.

A few minutes later we're chowing down on one of the best meals in Chicago. We've also switched to one of the local micro-brews. Elliot keeps making little groans until I finally have to tell him to stop, "Dude, cut it out already, you sound like you're having sex!"

"Christian, this pizza, this beer, man, they're so good, if I could, I'd stick my dick in them," he exclaims with his mouth full.

"Well, you could, but please don't do it here," I retort. "It is good stuff, though. I had a feeling you'd like it."

"Like it?! I want to get naked and smear this pizza all over myself. Better yet, where can I find a woman so I can smear it all over her?"

"All you have to do is walk out the front door of this building. Chicago's full of them."

"Yeah, well, there's time enough for that later. Please continue your story. You were about to describe your mystery cougar."

"She was blonde and stacked, every teenage guy's wet dream. Found out later she was thirty-nine.

"So one day she's two seats over from me and starts making small talk. I was polite; at first it was the usual mundane comments about the weather or the video poker hands. It stayed like that the next couple times I went there and then it progressed to sports. Either she'd checked me out previously or she was just an astute observer but she noticed I was interested in the Seattle teams and steered a lot of the conversation that way. Gradually I started to feel comfortable with her."

"Did she have a name?"

"Let's just call her Mary, shall we? She was a bored trophy wife; her husband owned one of the security firms in Vegas so he was basically on call 24/7/365. She had plenty of money to gamble and take vacations and spend hours at the spa. A pretty meaningless existence if you ask me but then it wasn't that different from my own.

"She was nothing if not patient. For several days we 'ran into' each other there. The conversation became more personal but nothing alarming. Then one day she gets up from her chair and I think she's going to the bathroom but no, as she passes me she slides a keycard on the counter in front of me. There's a post-it note on it with a room number.

"My first thought was to get the hell out of there and never return. There are a gazillion places in Vegas to drink and play video poker. I might not ever have to run into her again. But then I thought it over; if her husband owned a security firm, chances are she could track me down, most likely already had. She could follow me wherever I decided to take my business, although I suspected that if I didn't show up at her room she probably wouldn't pursue it any further and I wouldn't even see her at Mandalay Bay."

"So you nailed her," he states categorically.

"Long story short, yes," I confirm, "I figured why the fuck not, pardon the pun. When I went up there and let myself in, she was lying on the bed wearing only a bustier and a smile. You don't need all the gory details but after explaining to her my no-touch areas, which she was cool with, we fucked for over two hours, after which I slept for almost three.

"When I woke up she was gone. My first thought was that I'd just been scammed. I checked my pants to see if my wallet was still there. Imagine my surprise when I found a wad of bills in my right front pocket. I knew the money wasn't there when I arrived since that wad was in the other pocket and it was about the right amount. I counted the wad she left me and there was two thousand dollars there.

"I remember sitting on the bed stunned. At first I was pissed, then amused, and then I laughed out loud. Holy shit! Not only was it a no-strings-attached fuck, she actually paid me for it!"

"Let me guess," he interjects, "She had friends who also needed to be fucked." He's looking rather amused by all this.

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner!" I shout.

"You _dog_! So you really _were_ a gigolo!"

"Past tense, yes, I was. Again, it was every teenage boy's dream – getting paid to fuck! All her friends were hot, even if they were ten or fifteen years older than me."

"So how did this work? Did she just send you women?"

"Okay, we got a little ahead of the story. At first it was just me and her. She'd show up at the bar, leave her keycard with the room number, and I'd meet her upstairs. This happened about two or three times a week. Well after about a month and a half of this she asks me how I'd feel about servicing a friend or two. Looking back, I was so fucking clueless. I thought I was the shits, man. I'm getting my pipes cleaned regularly and I'm getting money under the table for it. I had no idea about the risks I was taking. I used condoms, sure, but even so, I was setting myself up for all sorts of trouble."

"Wait a minute – prostitution's legal in Nevada, right?"

"Yes, but not in Clark County, where Vegas is. All the whorehouses are out in the boonies, at least an hour's drive from the city.

"Anyway, I told her I'd take care of her friends but I wanted to check them out first. That was fine with her. She'd come to the bar with a friend, who'd sit somewhere on the other side of the room. Once Mary subtly pointed her out, I'd say yea or nay, then I'd get the keycard and the room number. Mary'd tell her friend to go upstairs, I'd give her some time to get ready, and then I'd head up there for some action.

"I'd been servicing a couple of her friends for several weeks when the shit hit the fan." I start sweating just thinking about what happened and calm myself by suggesting we move back to the balcony. We've polished off over half the pizza and Elliot takes the rest with him after we've cleared the table. It still amazes me how much food he can put away.

Since it's gotten chilly, I turn on the heater. I'm also in the mood for some music so I check the playlists on my phone and choose jazz / blues. The smooth sounds of Coltrane come through the speakers and I adjust the volume so it provides a nice background to our conversation.

"So one day I go to the bar and the bartender hands me a small envelope. There's a note inside telling me that Mary won't be there but her friend Leona is at the end of the bar; the keycard with her room number was there, too.

"I look at Leona, she's doable, and I give her a nod. She leaves and I wait my usual ten minutes or so, then head upstairs. When I let myself in the room, Leona's not on the bed which is where the women usually were, but sitting on a chair with her legs crossed, legs that went on for miles. She was wearing a long white shirt and underwear but nothing else.

"As I crossed the room she stood up and I asked her, 'So did Mary explain how this works?' and she said, 'Yes, she did but just so we're clear why don't you explain it to me again?'

"That right there should have alerted me but no, I was just too fucking stupid and full of myself. I actually told her, 'It's two thousand dollars and you don't touch me while we fuck.' She said, 'Okay, I just need to go to the bathroom for a moment.' As soon as she closes the door, guys come out of nowhere and swarm the room. One of them pulls out a badge and says, 'Christian Grey, you're under arrest for prostitution.' He tells me to raise my hands, then shoves me against the wall and searches me and finds condoms in my pocket. Then he read me my rights."

My palms are moist as I remember those horrible moments - the panic I felt as he put his hands on my chest and back, the fingerprinting, the mugshots; I even had to take a fucking blood test to see if I was HIV positive. Then the holding cell at the detention center, omg, the holding cell, my back against the wall, the taunts of the other detainees, my bladder bursting but refusing to go for fear of turning my back. I had nightmares for months afterwards about that night.

"Holy shit, dude!" Elliot yells. "They locked you up?" I nod. "So what did you do? We didn't hear about any of this! Why didn't you call dad? He's a lawyer, for crissake! I'm sure he could've called someone there and they'd have got you out."

"I'm never calling that man for anything," I answer in a low, controlled voice, "Not then, not now."

"So what happened? Did you do any time? Do you have a record?"

I take a swig of beer and continue. "I was sitting there, trying my best to keep cool and look tough, when the guard opened the door and shouted, 'Grey!' I yelled back, 'Yo!' and walked over to him. He told me, 'It's your lucky day, son,' and pointed to a redhead in a suit standing further down the hallway, indicating I should walk over to her. She introduced herself as Sara and told me she'd be representing me.

"I'm totally bewildered at this point. I asked her if she was a PD and she said no, I have too much money to be awarded a Public Defender. She said she was sent by my guardian angel and I'm thinking who the fuck is my guardian angel? When I asked her she got this weird smile on her face and said I'd meet her soon enough.

"When we left the detention center there was a blonde woman standing on the sidewalk outside. Sara walks up to her and says, 'He's all yours. Have fun.' The blonde asks, 'Everything's taken care of?' and Sara tells her yes, then goes on her way. The blonde turns to me and says, 'Well, Mr. Grey, would you like something to eat?'

"And that's how my relationship with Luba started."

"Who's Luba?"

"My guardian angel, my benefactor, my mentor, and all around nice lady. She brought me to Chicago and got me started in the business."

"Wait a minute," he stops me, "How did she know you and why did she get you a lawyer?"

"I was getting to that," I tell him. "Luba was one of the people who hung out at the Mandalay Bay lounge, one of the ones on the periphery, like I mentioned. I knew her from sight but never really talked to her. Well, evidently she had her eye on me and fortunately she also had my back."

"Man, every time you fall in a bucket of shit you come up smell like roses. So who did this Luba turn out to be and why did she rescue you?"

"First off, I don't always smell like roses. And second, if it isn't past your bedtime, I'd like to take you to meet her. She can tell you the rest of the story herself."

"Sure thing, bro! Let me tap a kidney and I'll be ready."

While he does that I call Luba to find out where she's at and let her know we're on our way. I don't know what made me suggest this but I hope it doesn't turn out to be a mistake.


End file.
